


Not the Time

by madeofbees



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Dirty Talk, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1953150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofbees/pseuds/madeofbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After destroying a shadow person, Dean and Castiel find themselves alone in an empty house. Dean has ideas about what they should be doing. Castiel thinks it's not the time. Dean doesn't care, and really, neither does Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not the Time

**Author's Note:**

> I was in the car on the way to Staples with my dad when suddenly this story popped into my head fully formed and demanded to be written. So ta da! My first proper Destiel. I am pleased.
> 
> Sam is barely in it, by the way. Just at the end for some silliness. This is straight up Destiel smut.

**Not the Time**

 

The shadow person had put up a fight, Dean would give it that. Sam had had to take the family outside to keep them out of the way while Dean and Castiel destroyed the shadow on their own.

They’d chased the creature through the entire house, over and over again, sprinting up and down the stairs, trying to keep a careful eye on what they could only see from the corner of their vision. It spent most of the time screeching static, bursts coming from all directions at once. Once it ran _through_ Dean, nearly pushing him down a flight of stairs and making him feel like he had been tuned to a radio station that was too far away to hear. Half real, mostly disappeared, thoughts a jumble of nothing.

But Castiel had rested a hand on his forehead, and whether it was the comforting warmth that could only come from Castiel or some sort of angel powers, it had worked.

They had finally cornered the shadow in the basement, Castiel keeping it shoved into a corner with an outstretched hand, barely looking at it, while Dean blasted it with the flamethrower. He also destroyed several racks of wine and a pile of lumber: flamethrowers were never an exact science, and that added to the fact that he could only see the shadow when he was looking at it out of the corner of his eye…

Dean tossed the flamethrower aside as the final shriek faded into nothing and turned to Castiel. He was still thrumming with adrenaline and the euphoria that came with killing a monster, and Castiel wasn’t helping. He was panting and sweating with the exertion of whatever angel thing he’d done to keep the shadow in place, and flushed from all the running. Dean assumed he looked about the same.

“You good?” Dean asked, barely able to keep his eyes on Castiel’s face.

“Yeah,” he replied, voice hoarser than usual.

 _Not the time_ , Dean thought with virtually no conviction.

“Are you?” Castiel continued.

“I’m great,” Dean replied, slowly moving into Castiel’s personal space. He should probably be stopping himself, but the fact was that he didn’t really _want_ to. Sam had been _everywhere_ this job, and this was the first time the two of them had been alone in days. “Killed the monster, saved the family, got to use my flamethrower. Pretty much the perfect day.”

Castiel frowned slightly, the frown Dean had come to adore. “You have a strange and unpredictable definition of perfect. You almost died.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean shrugged. “I didn’t.” He was now only a few inches away from Castiel, eyes bright and cheeks flushed for an entirely different reason.

Castiel eyed him, and that strange feeling washed over Dean, the one where he wasn’t sure if Castiel was reading his mind or he was just paranoid.

“It’s not the time,” Castiel said after a moment.

“Yeah?” Dean asked. He took another step forward, and Castiel moved back. “D’you think the motel with Sam watching is better?”

“No, that isn’t better,” Castiel replied, and Dean had to bite back a smile. Yes, the deadpan, I-don’t-understand-sarcasm could get old, and fast, but right now it only made Dean want him more.

Then again, anything would.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean said lowly. Castiel’s tongue flitted out to lick his lips. Dean stepped forward again and Castiel stepped backwards again.

“No, Dean.”

“How long exactly have you been in that body?” Dean asked, tilting his head and running a hand down Castiel’s arm for a split second before Castiel shook him off.

“Three hundred and eighty-five days,” Castiel stated. “Not including the breaks in which I was called home.”

“Mm, right,” Dean said. Another step forward, another step back. “Over a year, and you’re still not used to it.”

Castiel frowned, and it was all Dean could do to not pull him into a kiss.

 _Soon_ , he promised himself. _Minutes. Seconds._

“What are you talking about?”

Dean grinned. “Oh, Cas. So naïve.”

Castiel’s frown deepened. “What—”

Dean pounced. He grabbed Castiel’s shoulder’s, shoved him back the last few feet to the basement wall, and slammed him against it. Castiel looked more resigned than angry, and more aroused than anything else. Dean smashed their mouths together, one hand coming off his shoulder to card through his hair, stepping between his legs and knocking them apart, rubbing against the obvious bulge. Castiel moaned, grabbing at Dean’s jacket, hips canting forward.

“That,” Dean panted, licking up the side of Castiel’s neck, causing a full-body shiver, “is what I’m talking about,” he finished, grinding against Castiel’s erection.

“Th-that doesn’t mean this is a good time,” Castiel breathed, his head rolling to the side, letting out a choked moan when Dean bit the crook of his neck, just below the collar of his shirt where it wouldn’t show. “I am used to it, more than—th-than, Dean s-stop—than you. I have c-con— _nnuhhh_ —control over myself.”

Dean continued worrying the mark on his neck, the hand on his shoulder going to his hip, anchoring them together, the one in his hair making sure that he didn’t slam his head back against the concrete.

“Liar,” he whispered, coming up for one more kiss before letting go and stepping back. It was easy enough to spin Castiel, pinning him against the wall and grinding unabashedly against his arse. Castiel groaned, pushing back against him, then against the wall in a vague break for freedom.

“Oh, no,” Dean growled, lips brushing his ear, wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him close. “You need this as much as I do.” He flicked his tongue along the shell of Castiel’s ear and got another moan in return. “Tell me you don’t and I’ll stop.”

They both stilled, letting Dean’s words sink in. Trust was—not the easiest to come by for either of them, and the _are you sure_ ritual was well-ingrained.

Especially when they were in someone’s basement right after killing a shadow person.

“Don’t stop.” Castiel’s voice was ragged, and as soon as the words were uttered they were both moving again, this time together, sliding against each other with the perfect synchronicity Dean had never felt before, had never known was possible.

“Only you,” Dean said, words lost in the panting and moaning, words he hadn’t meant to say and thanked god for being too quiet to hear, words he was nearly positive Castiel heard anyway.

“The wall,” Castiel said, fingertips turning white from gripping it. “Concrete. Dean.”

For a moment Dean was completely lost, but a particularly graceful roll of Castiel’s hips against his made it obvious. Castiel’s ass might be absolutely fucking perfect for rubbing against, his pants just loose enough to let Dean find the tiniest bit of his crack to nestle himself into, but a concrete wall? Not as comfortable.

Dean nipped his neck in apology, hand sliding down his side and inwards, tugging his shirt out of his pants, taking a moment to appreciate the flat plane of his stomach before undoing his button and zip with a practiced speed. He slowed for a moment, teasing at the top of his boxers before dipping downwards. Making the angel beg came with its own special sort satisfaction, but time wasn’t on their side.

And Dean didn’t really want to wait, anyway.

He wrapped a hand around Castiel, giving him a strong stroke before pulling him out of his boxers. For a moment it was almost too much, touching Castiel always was. He was so hard, _always_ , didn’t seem to have a middle ground between soft and not aroused and fully erect. Heat radiated off velvet skin, he was already leaking, and it was so hard not to think about Castiel buried inside him, pounding into him until they were both screaming, thrusting slowly as he peppered his shoulders and neck with kisses, or in Dean’s mouth, forcing himself to stay still as—

Castiel’s head dropped forward, hitting the concrete with a dull thud, and Dean grabbed his hand, guiding it up to rest against his forehead. Castiel mumbled something that might have been a thank you but was lost as Dean stroked him again, long and languid.

“Has to be fast,” Dean muttered into his ear, nibbling on the lobe. “‘Less you want Sam coming in after us.”

Castiel snapped his hips back, sliding himself through Dean’s hand and simultaneously grinding back against him. Dean let out a low moan, grabbing his hip, pulling him closer.

“I told you it was a bad time,” Castiel said, slowly circling his ass against Dean, still thrusting into his hand.

“’T’s never a bad time,” Dean said roughly, speeding his strokes. “Y’know I always give you a good time, Cas.”

Castiel whined, freezing for a moment before jerking back against him. Dean didn’t know why, he’d never gotten Castiel to explain, but he’d _never_ had somebody react to dirty talk the way Castiel did. Dean has first tried it as a joke, to see what his response would be. For someone who didn’t understand sarcasm, innuendo, or anything other than the literal meaning of each and every word, Dean had expected extreme confusion and probably a stop to that night’s activities. Instead Castiel had moaned like nothing Dean had ever heard, started shaking uncontrollably, and had come a moment or two later.

Dean hadn’t shut up since.

“Timing,” Castiel replied, barely audible. “B-bad ti— _th-there, Dean, please-yes-there_.”

Dean grinned, sucked his earlobe into his mouth, and rubbed his thumb along the bundle of nerves beneath Castiel’s crown. Castiel moaned again, resting more of his weight on his hand, slipping backwards, pushing himself harder against Dean. Dean grunted, thrusting up against him, momentarily forgetting that he had a cock in his hand, just chasing friction. He hooked a leg around one of Castiel’s, somehow managing to keep them balanced, rutting against him for all he was worth, all the while cursing whoever invented metal zippers and wondering if he could sue for injury.

“Dean…” Castiel circled his hips again, and for a moment Dean thought he was going to come; it had been too long, and he needed desperately. Instead he forced himself to focus, thumbing Castiel’s slit and then palming it, gathering as much precome as he could before going back to jerking him. There wasn’t a lot of finesse to his movements, though Castiel didn’t seem to care. The basement filled with panting and moaning; the sound of skin-on-skin and denim-on-trench-coat; and Dean’s voice, whispering filthy things into Castiel’s ear.

“When I come for you,” he breathed, accentuating the word with another brush along the seam of his crown and shaft, “I’m gonna be spending the rest of the night walking around with a wet spot ‘cause of you. Haven’t got that long coat either; I’ll have to keep my hands in my pockets so I can keep my jacket down.”

Castiel shuddered, and Dean squeezed him.

“Bet you’d like it if I didn’t, mm?” Dean asked, slowly licking along the shell of Castiel’s ear, basking in the returning whimpers. “Walking around with everyone knowing what you made me do. Know you like bossing me around, Cas, you and all you angel buddies, but none of them can get me like this, can they? Just you.”

Another shudder, and a breathy “ _f-fuck_ ”. Dean sped his motions, both his hand and his hips. He was close, they both were, and the not-quite-public public sex was doing horrible, wonderful things to Dean.

“You know I’d do anything you say. Remember when we first met and you told me to show you some respect?” Dean closed his eyes, pressing his face into Castiel’s neck and breathing deeply. “Thinkin’ about that still gets me off. You could order me to drop to my knees and suck you off in front of God himself and I’d do it.”

Castiel groaned, all but writhing in Dean’s arms. Dean nosed his shirt to the side and sucked a dark mark onto his collarbone, and that was the beginning of the end. Castiel’s head snapped back, falling against Dean’s shoulder; the movement caused his center of gravity to shift backwards, pushing harder against Dean; his back was arched, cock jutting out, and Dean groaned as well, fascinated by the sight of them together: always had been, always would be.

“All you’d have to do is ask,” Dean grunted. “In that sexy fuckin’ voice of yours.”

Dean could feel the power shift before it happened. The air changed, almost like a breeze blowing but everything was still. Castiel didn’t change position but he _grew_ somehow, not in any way physics could measure. Dean’s balls started tingling, drawing up, hips snapping forward in tiny little thrusts, touching Castiel exactly the way he loved.

“This voice?” Castiel asked, and Dean moaned helplessly, so close it hurt, and this was the other reason why he talked dirty, the selfish one, why he’d say anything Castiel wanted him to, because when Castiel decided to return the favor, _god_ , it was like fucking angels from on high.

One angel, his angel, who was about to come in his hand.

“Dean.”

Dean groaned again, moulding himself against Castiel, so close, just the tiniest bit more, and Castiel was just as close, trembling in his arms, and how he could sound like this and be that near the edge—

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean breathed, all he could manage, only trying because Castiel wanted something from him and he’d give it, anything, any-fucking-thing at all.

“Come for me.”

The noise Dean made wasn’t human; to be fair, neither was Castiel’s voice. Dean did exactly as Castiel said—commanded, exactly what he _commanded_ —spilling himself into his jeans, hips twitching against him. His hand tightened reflexively and Castiel let out a low scream, stiffening and hardening and thickening before coming, long white strands hitting the concrete wall and then dribbling down Dean’s hand. Dean let go of his hip, hand flying up to stifle his noises, muffling his own against his shoulder. They’d taken too long, Sam was bound to come looking for them any minute, and Dean didn’t give a flying fuck.

Except he did, a little, and at least made a token effort to keep them quiet.

They came down together, Castiel trembling and Dean barely able to stand, slowly checking back into reality. Dean cleaned off Castiel with his shirttails before putting him away and very carefully tucking his shirt in, making sure nothing showed. He wasn’t sure Castiel was aware of this, in fact suspected he wasn’t, but he thought it would go unnoticed. Castiel always looked like he’d just had sex (which Dean maintained was completely unfair and Castiel either didn’t understand or pretended not to, Dean could never tell); Dean, on the other hand, was an obvious mess, and not the sort that comes from killing shadow people. He wiped his hand off on his undershirt before buttoning up his flannel and jacket, which almost-but-not-quite covered the predicted wet spot. Shoving his hands into his pockets helped, mostly. Probably enough to get them back to the motel.

“My come is on their wall,” Castiel said, and Dean let out a breathless laugh, which made Castiel frown in confusion, and Dean laughed harder. “What? It is. I don’t feel right leaving it like this.”

Dean pulled Castiel into a quick kiss, much more gentle and sweet than before.

“We’ll just tell them it’s ectoplasm or something,” Dean said, wrapping an arm around his waist and leading them upstairs. “Probably won’t even notice.”

“Regardless, it’s still there, and—”

The front door slammed open, and Dean quickly stepped away from Castiel. Not quite fast enough for Sam not to notice, and he definitely didn’t get the smirk off his face in time. In fact, he was still smirking when Sam started yelling.

“What the hell! I’ve been standing out there for almost an hour convinced you guys were dead, and then I hear that fucking _scream_ , and—”

“ _Le petite mort_ ,” Dean interrupted, clapping a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Gets you every time.”

Sam jerked away. “Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“Cas, don’t answer that,” Dean said quickly. “C’mon. I’m exhausted.”

Sam groaned, threw his hands in the air, and stomped back outside. Castiel frowned again.

“Why are we speaking French?”

Dean raised an eyebrow.

“A little death? We didn’t die at all, little or big. And I didn’t know you knew French. _Nous parlons français si vous voulez, mais vous me disiez à l’avance si—_ ”

Dean gave him another quick kiss before all but shoving him out the door.

“C’mon, smarty pants. Let’s go.”

“Smarty pants? I don’t understand.”

Dean just rolled his eyes, following Castiel and over to the family.

He probably should say something about ectoplasm.

Just in case.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you reading _Never Again_ , I promise I haven't stopped. NaNo has been kicking my butt and, frankly, so has life. Mostly life. LIfe has been ... not my friend. But I haven't forgotten and I will finish it, promise.


End file.
